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I’ve just emerged from a wood-fired sauna heated to 90 C, and am standing outside, naked on a wooden deck, shivering in a December breeze. Chilly waters glisten in front of me. I have a big decision to make: hop in or run back inside?

This is the famous Ribersborgs Kallbadhus, an 1898-built waterfront bathing house in Malmo, Sweden. I’m staring at an enclosed section of the Oresund, a strait between Sweden and Denmark that connects the Baltic Sea to the Atlantic Ocean. Elderly Swedish men seem to have no problem taking the plunge.

“Do it!” I tell myself. Quickly I descend a staircase into the 3.5 C water, splashing around, dunking my head, and coming back out. To my surprise, a pleasant streak of blue electricity courses through me. I’m not frozen to the bone; I’m re-energized.

When I came to Sweden’s third-largest city for a hockey writing assignment, I heard that the Ribersborgs Kallbadhus was a must-do. After pounding away on my laptop in an arena for days, I was ready for a refreshing change.

It was a three-kilometre stroll from my downtown hotel, the Scandic Triangeln. En route, I passed the city’s historic canal, the brick castle-style library, and multiple falafel kiosks. Malmo (pop. 670,000) is considered Sweden’s most multi-ethnic destination, but I was seeking a traditional experience.

I followed a long pedestrian bridge over the water to the army-green bathing house. The scent of seaweed on the shore was pervasive. Off to my right, the Turning Torso loomed with its distinctive half-twisted shape. It’s Scandinavia’s tallest skyscraper at 190 metres.

The atmosphere in the foyer, which doubles as the on-site café, was down-to-earth and welcoming. Fat red candles twinkled on white tablecloths. Couples, seniors and students gabbed in Swedish as they pulled off their coats.

I paid 55 kroner ($9) to the girl at the counter, who gave me a white towel, a pad to sit on, and a padlock and key for my locker. Heading outside toward the men’s dressing room, I noticed small private change rooms and picnic tables around the sea enclosure — probably lovely on a summer day.

Inside, photos of early 20th-century bathers adorned the walls, along with signs in slightly cryptic English. Highlights included “Body servicing should be taken care of elsewhere, not in the sauna” and “Use small words and enjoy the tranquillity.”

Minutes later, I was perspiring in the sauna, whose window overlooked the restfully lapping Oresund. Ostensibly, this was a quiet zone. I’m half-Finnish, and by Finnish standards, Swedish guys are real chatterboxes. The chuckles got positively boisterous at times.

There were several early-40s Mats Sundin look-alikes, and on average, guys looked fitter than their North American counterparts — fewer beer bellies, at least. In the adjoining shower area, one assiduous older gentleman constantly pushed a squeegee around the floor to keep it tidy.

The Kallbadhus welcomes men and women, but the dry saunas are sex-segregated. There’s one coed “moisture sauna,” and it looked packed to the gills with pink flesh when the door swung open as I walked past. Swedes are pretty relaxed about nudity.

All in all, I spend an hour and a half alternating between the sauna and the outdoor plunges. After showering, I feast on goulash soup, a fried herring sandwich, and a salad with sliced hard-boiled eggs in the café. As I sip my coffee, I relish the feeling of warm contentment before the walk back to my hotel. Clearly, I’ve made the right decision.